An Ex-Parrot

An "Ex-Parrot"

I desperately want to be a vet when I am older and so I do work
experience at a local veterinary surgery. I've always come home after
work with both heart-warming and humorous stories to tell my family and
so have now decided to share them with you.

All names have been changed. I will try to avoid being too graphic but
some procedures may need to be described. No animals were hurt for the
making of these stories - people's pride, yes: animals, no.

One of the first days I went I was not working with a senior partner
but a young vet called Jack. I watched him do the consultations, (which
involved mainly vaccinations and anal gland emptying - not the most
pleasant of jobs). Afterwards Jack had to do a post-mortem on a parrot.
(Insert the infamous Monty Python joke here.) This happens quite
regularly, especially if the client is a breeder because if the bird
died of a disease they need to discover what it was.

This vet had not done many post-mortems on birds before, (if any), and
so spent a while researching how to do it.

We were joined in the operating theatre by a nurse called Vicky who had
seen a senior partner do parrot post-mortems before and so could offer
advice. I had not seen one before so I was very interested in what was
going to happen so I waited with baited breath.

I had not seen much surgery before and felt that this could be a good
discriminator of whether I could stand being a vet or not. You don't
really know whether you will be squeamish by watching injections.
(Actually the true test is when the vet gives you the leg that he has
just amputated off a cat, gives you a scalpel and tells you to find the
air rifle pellet that is embedded in it somewhere!)

The vet was obviously also aware that this would be a good
discriminator as he told me that if I felt slightly dizzy I should go
out - or sit down on the floor - depending on how dizzy I was.

Vicky got the tray out as Jack scrubbed up. She put the tray on the
table and he turned picked up the scalpel to begin. The concentration
was etched on his face as he lined the scalpel up, ready to make the
first incision.

He pressed the scalpel to the bird's chest and applied pressure.

"Sqwaaaaaaaaark!"

The vet's heart stopped. My heart stopped. The bird had just screeched!
Half my brain was saying, "Don't be stupid! The bird's dead! A vet
would know! It's dead!" but the other half was saying, "Shut up! That
bird squealed! It can't squeal if it is dead, can it? It is hardly
likely to be a ghost! That bird cannot be dead!"

Vicky took one look at the mine and the vet's face and burst into a fit
of laughter. The vet had just about recovered but was still obviously
shocked. My brain had decided that this was far too odd and had run
away, leaving me standing there, open-mouthed.
I think had the owner of the pet shop in that famous Monty Python
sketch seen this post-mortem he would have had a field day!

When Vicky had recovered she deigned to tell us that, although it was
not a common occurrence, it had happened before that air remained in
the bird's lungs after death and when compressed would be forced up
through the vocal chords, thereby making a screeching noise.
The vet recovered and managed to complete the rest of the post-mortem
successfully.

I came out of that room believing that nothing would ever shock me
again. I was wrong, naturally. But that's another story.